


anchor

by stonyholic



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, I'll add more tags when I upload the next chapter lol, M/M, Panic Attacks, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 03:42:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20988254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonyholic/pseuds/stonyholic
Summary: The thing is, the author has no idea where this is going so-





	anchor

**Author's Note:**

> If you want something to expect then it's basically soft!stevetony and hurt!stevetony and just, pure relationship development. Do NOT expect a plot.

Sometimes, Steve finds himself unable to breathe.

It’s ironic, really, how the super soldier serum was given to him so he could be better, almost invincible in every way. Yet, it was the serum which set off the chain of events that turned his world upside down and shook it up and down and every which way until, at this stage, it isn’t recognizable anymore.

That’s why Steve will find his supposedly strong lungs seizing up, his chest constricting, his throat tightening, triggered by the mere pop of a balloon too similar to the sound of gunshots, or the sound of someone coughing, or shouting that, in reality, comes from joy, but to him sounds no different than the ones of anguish and terror of war. He’ll think, with a sense of dread that  _ No, this isn’t happening. Not again. I’m in public, I’m Captain America. No one can see me like this. It’s weak, it’s pathetic, _ ** _ I need to hide_ ** .

But there’s never anywhere to hide.

And the air itself will take his breath away, causing a disorienting dizziness to consume him and eat unrelentingly at his vision. He’ll feel his hands start to tremble, his breathing shortening rapidly, his heart beating thunderously against his ribcage as he almost unconsciously starts running wildly through the streets trying to find anywhere—an alley, a public toilet, a corner, to stop, rest,  _ hide _ ; because Steve Rogers isn’t Captain America and sometimes he can’t breathe, but the universe doesn’t seem to understand that Steve needs to catch his breath, that he can’t keep up, that the only way he knows how to is to hide and hit a pause button that doesn’t exist.

This time, it was music. Old, people now would say. Forties’ music. But to Steve, it’s nothing more than a few months ago; a few days, even. The forties was his reality, but it just...isn’t anymore. It’s almost absurd to think that music, one of the most harmless things on earth, is now dragging him right back into his past, too quickly and too aggressively. He thinks of back then, of Peggy and Bucky and his mother, and too suddenly he’s not in the future anymore. Everything is confusing, a dream, a nightmare, everything and nothing, flashes of light and dark, and the world closes in on him. He...he can’t breathe.

_ No, not again. _

Steve’s legs carries him through street after street, and though he may not be aware, he’s good ol’ Captain America even when he’s not, muttering “sorry”and “excuse me” as he barges past passersby with a level of panic that no doubt shocks people because, of course, Captain America is calm, cool, and collected. Stoic. No one really comprehends him as a person that thinks and feels and  _ hurts _ ; someone that could fray at the edges and at some point completely unravel from too much internal conflict and torment.

Steve doesn’t see himself approaching the tower, or the doors opening before his powerful body could rip through; nor does he notice vases, paintings, coffee tables, smashing to irreparable pieces as he runs desperately through room after room until he finally manages to enter one without ripping the door off its hinges. He slams the door shut and curls into a fetal position on the floor, fingers curling tightly in his hair with a grip just a tad too painful, his chest heaving for air he can’t take in because past memories inevitably lead to the plane and the radio and Peggy’s voice and  _ pain _ and then cold, cold, darkness.

Steve doesn’t know how long he lies on the floor—is it even a floor? Or the concrete ground of a street? Or the seat of a car, a bed, a couch? He never knows where he ends up, he never knows where he _is_. His skin flashes hot and cold, his mind skipping between memories and reality as if it doesn’t know which one is real. Steve _doesn’t_ _know_ which one is real. He doesn’t know where he belongs, where he should be, what and when and how his life is supposed to be because the moment he was defrosted from the ice, time and space stopped making any sense.

Steve chokes on a dry sob and strains to reign the panic in, his arms tensing to a degree that they almost feel detached from his body. His heart is pounding too irregularly and quickly, a thunderous drumming that doesn’t help his mind from calming. Steve curls tighter and tighter into himself, as if this is how the panic is contained, as if the confusion and loss of direction he feels can be shrunk within his arms as long as he stays as small as he can go.

He wants to go home.

Inevitably, Steve’s arms start to tire, his stomach starts cramping from being curled up too long, and his thighs shake from the effort of keeping a physically large body too small. 

By the time he starts feeling like he might be able to breathe again, his head aches, his nose is running, and his eyes sting. 

He’s so  _ tired _ .

Like a snail crawling along a wall, Steve’s mind slowly pulls itself from the depths of panic and confusion, but he isn’t sure whether he’s in the real world anymore; he never knows what reality is, now. How can he be sure it’s not a dream? A flashback? A twisted version of his past that he’s somehow envisioning? Maybe he never was frozen. Maybe he’s in a coma. Or maybe he’s mentally ill. Maybe he’s dying. He doesn’t  _ know _ .

Steve lies on the floor and stares emptily ahead for so long the cramp in his stomach becomes borderline unbearable. He doesn’t try to blink away the tears on his lashes, he doesn’t try to stop his nose from running; he doesn’t move. He simply stares and stares and stares, feeling himself sink into a void that he may never get out of. The world is out of focus, but he’s too tired to force it back into his vision.

Still, Steve is some parts Captain America, and the remaining shreds of his dignity won’t let him lie on the floor in self-pity for who knows how long. He forces his stiff limbs to unravel, painfully pushing himself to an upright sitting position before he drags his heavy body to stand up. He’s so weary. So, so weary for a person barely in his twenties. 

_ Technically, I’m ninety-three years old.  _

Steve can’t summon enough energy to laugh at his own thought.

He turns and opens the door, jerking back when a bundle of black and blue and gray falls through and thuds to the ground.

“Ow! Ow, okay. Ow.”

Steve finds himself staring into a pair of large, brown eyes.

“Okay, um, hi? I heard you in my room and didn’t want to disturb you so I kinda just sat-”

Before Tony can finish the sentence, Steve disappears down the hallway, his breathing quickening as he runs. God, his head hurts, and his eyes still sting, his mind is a muddled daze from too many memories. He wants to lie down.

** _Goddammit_ ** _ how could you not have heard him, _ Steve thinks and sinks to the floor on his knees. He hasn’t even made it around the third corner.

The super soldier serum is supposed to enhance his senses. Has it stopped working? Has he become so insane and so thoroughly consumed by his own mind that he’s unable to detect footsteps, something even people without enhanced senses could pick up? 

Steve doesn’t move from his position on the floor, his own shallow breathing filling his ears and the steady, continuous chant of  _ pathetic, pathetic, pathetic _ thrumming in his mind.

This is how Tony finds him- kneeling on the floor, eyes wide and glassy, hands clenched at his sides as his chest heaves uselessly and his back soaks with sweat.

“Cap,” Tony says, a soft, hesitant sound.

_ I’m not Cap,  _ Steve wants to say.  _ I’m Steve. Please, see me. _

Tony doesn’t hear him. “Cap, you-are you-do you need anything?”

_ I need you to leave. _

Steve doesn’t have enough air to speak. There’s a lump lodged in his throat and it won’t go away. 

“Cap, you gotta-” Tony stops himself, and Steve realizes belatedly that it’s because he’s made a noise of protest.

“...Cap?”

Steve feels like he’s either going to combust from near-hysteria or shrink into nothing within a world too big for someone like him. He hates how he can’t control his shaking hands or labored breathing or watering eyes. He hates it, hates it,  _ hates it _ so much.

He’s cold and tired and he wants to go to sleep and never wake up.

“Hey, look at me.”

Steve can’t. He can’t even make himself twitch a muscle.

“All right,” Tony says, and Steve can hear the decision in his voice.

Steve is knelt facing the wall, shoulders tensed, his entire body coiled and looking like it’s ready to take off despite how paralyzed in place he is. He doesn’t move, but he sees Tony sit a few feet away from him, back to the wall. He can sense the determination radiating off of him.

He wants him to go away.

Tony doesn’t.

The two of them stay silent for who knows how long, until Steve’s knees start aching from kneeling too long and Tony’s eyelids are drooping as his head tilts back against the wall.

Tony’s eyes snap open when he notices Steve watching him, and he shrugs sheepishly. “I don’t get enough sleep, apparently,” he says, the momentary break in the silence too loud and conversational.

“You look uncomfortable. It’s been an hour and a half,” Tony tries again.

He’s been sitting there against the wall because of Steve for an hour and a half. Steve doesn’t know what to feel about it, but a sudden surge of defensiveness pushes him to his feet.

“Hey, where-”

“I don’t need your help,” Steve snaps, not letting himself look at Tony’s reaction before he sprints away. It was meant to sound cold, hard, resistant. But what it sounded like corresponded to the desperate, clawing feeling at the back of his throat.

It sounded like a plea.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Remember to please leave a kudos/comment if you enjoyed this!


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